He went round the room, examined some of the glass cases, gazed at some of the pictures and, as he walked, said, pensively: “How sad it is to leave all this! What a wrench! The happiest hours of my life have been spent here, alone, in the presence of these objects which I loved. And my eyes will never behold them again and my hands will never touch them again—” His drawn face bore such an expression of lassitude upon it that Beautrelet felt a vague sort of pity for him. Sorrow in that man must assume larger proportions than in another, even as joy did, or pride, or humiliation. He was now standing by the window, and, with his finger pointing to the horizon, said: “What is sadder still is that I must abandon that, all that! How beautiful it is! The boundless sea—the sky.—On either side, the cliffs of Étretat with their three natural archways: the Porte d’Armont, the Porte d’Aval, the Manneporte—so many triumphal arches for the master. And the master was I! I was the king of the story, the king of fairyland, the king of the Hollow Needle! A strange and supernatural kingdom! From Cæsar to Lupin: what a destiny!” He burst out laughing. “King of fairyland! Why not say King of Yvetot at once? What nonsense! King of the world, yes, that’s more like it! From this topmost point of the Needle, I ruled the globe! I held it in my claws like a prey! Lift the tiara of Saitapharnes, Beautrelet.—You see those two telephones? The one on the right communicates with Paris: a private line; the one on the left with London: a private line. Through London, I am in touch with America, Asia, Australia, South Africa. In all those continents, I have my offices, my agents, my jackals, my scouts! I drive an international trade. I hold the great market in art and antiquities, the world’s fair! Ah, Beautrelet, there are moments when my power turns my head! I feel intoxicated with strength and authority.” The door gave way below. They heard Ganimard and his men running about and searching. After a moment, Lupin continued, in a low voice: “And now it’s over. A little girl crossed my path, a girl with soft hair and wistful eyes and an honest, yes, an honest soul—and it’s over. I myself am demolishing the mighty edifice.—All the rest seems absurd and childish to me—nothing counts but her hair—and her wistful eyes—and her honest little soul—” The men came up the staircase. A blow shook the door, the last door— Lupin seized the boy sharply by the arm: